Chapter 183 - One Hundred-Eighty-Three: The Cabin

//CLARA//

"Little bird. Wake up."

The words filtered through the fog of sleep. I felt something tapping gently against my cheek.

I blinked. Casimir’s face hovered inches from mine, and he looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

"We’re here."

I sat up slowly, my neck aching. Outside the window, trees clawed at a sky the color of old pewter. A long, winding drive disappeared into a dense thicket of pines.

"How long?"

"Almost a full day. The roads were worse than I anticipated."

A full day. A full day of carriage wheels grinding over frozen roads, of Hattie’s soft breathing from the opposite seat, of Gary’s occasional snores from somewhere behind us, of brief stops at posting houses to change horses while we stretched our cramped legs and avoided each other’s eyes.

I should have been terrified. Instead, I had slept through most of it like the dead.

"We need to move," Casimir said, reaching for the door handle. "The sooner we’re inside, the sooner we can assess our situation."

He stepped out first, then turned and offered me his hand. I took it.

The cabin stood at the end of the drive, nestled in a clearing carved out of the forest. It was modest. Two stories of weathered timber and stone, a chimney sending a thin ribbon of smoke into the grey morning air. A small porch, a vegetable garden gone dormant for winter, and a well pump near the side door.

It was nothing like the Guggenheim mansion. Nothing at all.

It felt like just a few heartbeats ago I was stressing over whether the French imported hydrangeas clashed with the the chrome sculptures, and in a blink, we were tucked away in Narnia’s gloomier, draftier cousin, hiding from the very world we used to rule.

I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Hattie emerging from the carriage. Gary followed, looking around with wide eyes.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "This is... rustic."

"Mrs. Hartley is already inside. She’s been preparing the house for our arrival." Casimir responded flatly.

I climbed the porch steps, my boots leaving dark prints on the frost-slicked wood. The door opened before I could knock, revealing a sturdy, weathered, woman with her face lined with years of honest labor.

"Mr. Guggenheim." She nodded, then her gaze shifted to me with immediate understanding. "Come inside. I’ve got the fires going and hot water on the stove. You’ll be wanting breakfast."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hartley."

The interior was smaller than I had imagined, but warm and clean. A kitchen dominated the back, with a heavy iron stove and a wooden table scarred by decades of use.

A small parlor opened to the left, furnished with a settee, two armchairs, and a bookshelf filled with worn volumes. The stairs to the second floor were narrow, the banister polished smooth by generations of hands.

It was humble. It was so far removed from the gilded opulence of our former life that I might as well have stepped into another century.

"We have three bedrooms." Mrs. Hartley appeared at my elbow with a tray of teacups. "One master, one guest room, and a small servant’s room off the kitchen. There’s also an attic, though it’s not much more than storage space."

"I’ll take the attic," Hattie chirped immediately.

We all turned to look at her. She stood in the doorway.

"The attic will suit me fine, miss." Her eyes met mine. "I don’t need much space. And it’s closer to the kitchen, easier to help with meals and such."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Casimir cut in.

"The attic is yours. Mrs. Hartley will show you up."

Hattie nodded and disappeared up the narrow stairs, Mrs. Hartley following with a murmured explanation of the layout.

Gary cleared his throat. "And where do I go?"

"The room at the far end of the western wing," Casimir replied. "Opposite side of the house from Clara and me. You’ll have your own space."

"Opposite side of the house." Gary grinned slowly. "You mean as far away from you as possible?"

Casimir didn’t dignify that with a response. He simply turned and walked toward the master bedroom, his boots echoing against the wooden floor.

I lingered in the parlor. Through the window, I could see the dense forest, and beyond that, nothing but miles of frozen wilderness.

The first day passed in a blur of small tasks and quiet adjustments.

Mrs. Hartley had done her job well. The pantry was stocked with staples. The root cellar held potatoes, carrots, and onions. There was a small coop behind the cabin with half a dozen chickens, and a goat tethered near the well.

"This will get us through," Casimir remarked as we walked the perimeter of the property. "For now."

"And the money?"

"My accounts are frozen, but I have other assets. This house is one of several I established years ago. The deed, the land, the accounts tied to it. None of it can be traced back to me."

"How much?"

"Enough to last a couple of years. Perhaps three, if we’re careful and wise."

I nodded, processing it all.

"We’ll need to establish a routine," Casimir added. "Guard rotations. Supply runs. Communication protocols. If Harding’s or Vanderbilt’s men come looking, we need to be ready."

"You think they’ll find us?"

"They’ll try. But this valley is remote. The roads are difficult. And Mrs. Hartley has been with my family for twenty years. She knows how to keep secrets."

We walked in silence for a while, our boots crunching over the frozen ground. The forest pressed in around us, and I felt the weight of it settling over my shoulders.

That night, after the others had retreated to their rooms, I found Casimir in the small study adjacent to our bedroom. He was hunched over a stack of papers, a single candle flickering beside him, his brow furrowed in concentration.

I stood in the doorway, watching him. The candlelight carved shadows into the hollows of his face.

"You should sleep."

He didn’t look up. "I can’t."

I crossed the room and perched on the edge of the desk, facing him. "Casimir. Look at me."

He did. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red, and my chest ached at the sight.

"Talk to me," I urged. "Tell me what you’re thinking."

He was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he set down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

"I have compromising material on everyone," he replied quietly. "Every Board member. Every syndicate leader. Every politician and judge and businessman who ever crossed my path. I could destroy them all like pawns on my board. I could force them to protect us, to shelter us, to fight for us."

I stared at him. "Then why don’t you?"

"Because it wouldn’t work." His voice was hollow. "I’ve spent years building that network, cultivating those secrets, making myself indispensable. But the moment I showed weakness, they saw their chance. They’ve been waiting for this. They’ve been waiting for me to slip."

"That’s not—"

"Don’t." He held up a hand, cutting me off. "Don’t tell me it’s not my fault. I know it is. I knew the risks when I married you. I knew what it would cost. And I chose you anyway."

The words hit me hard. I opened my mouth to respond, but he kept talking.

"If I try to use those secrets now, they’ll call my bluff. They’ll say I’ve lost my mind, that I’m desperate, that I’m grasping at straws. And they’ll be right." He laughed bitterly. "I am desperate. My allies have turned against me. My enemies are closing in. And the only thing I have left—the only thing that matters—is you."

I reached for his hand, my fingers interlacing with his. His grip was almost painful.

"Then let me help. You don’t have to do this alone."

"How?"

"I don’t know yet." I squeezed his hand. "But I’m not going to let you carry this by yourself. We’re in this together, Casimir."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, his expression shifted. The iron control cracked, just slightly, revealing the man beneath.

"I’m afraid," he whispered. "I’m afraid I’ve already lost. I’m afraid I’ve dragged you into something I can’t protect you from. I’m afraid—"

"Stop." I leaned forward, pressing my forehead to his. "Stop. You haven’t lost. Not yet. Not while we’re still breathing. And you haven’t dragged me anywhere. I chose this. I chose you. And I would choose you again, a thousand times, no matter what comes next."

"What would I do without you?"

"Oh, that’s easy," I snorted, raising an eyebrow. "You’d be locked in your private study right now, aggressively brooding over a railway ledger, and officially married off to Adelaide Chase."

He chuckled, and this time it was genuine.

"No, I wouldn’t."

I flashed him a wicked, teasing grin, poking his chest.

"Please. You totally would have. Aunt Cornelia has the persistence of a telemarketer and the soul of a medieval dungeon master. She would have had you at the altar before you even realized you were wearing a boutonnière."

"I would have rather thrown myself into the harbor."

"She would have fished you out and marched you back to the altar."

He laughed again, louder this time.

"Good thing I found you, then."